


Wicked Game

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27915613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Post-concert, Edge has big plans for a nice, quiet and solitary night in. Bono, however, has other ideas. Set in 2001.
Relationships: Bono/The Edge (U2)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, so there I was, telling my dears MissElla and LAM how I had absolutely no energy or current mindset to write anything right now, when someone posted a specific picture from 2001 that made my brain go WRITE FIC NOW. You know, how life? So here we are. Said picture is of a sign that is explained in fic, title is from Chris Isaak's classic song because it just felt right. I'm sorry for this silly fic, ilu all xx

There were some nights when Edge, post-show, found himself rearing for a party. Drinks, conversation, time well spent on the dance floor—what more could a person want after a successful couple of hours spent with tens of thousands of friends?

Sleep? Well, yes, but that was often hard to come by when adrenaline was still pumping, so why not make the most of life before settling down?

Sex? Well, yes, but that, too, wasn’t always achievable. It took two to tango, after all, and sometimes his willing partner was not in the right place, or life had that funny way of throwing a million distractions in front of them until they ran out of time, energy, or freedom to make a good go of it. Although it wasn’t like Edge didn’t often think about it. Especially during those nights when said willing partner was sadly not by his side, and something was adamantly on his mind. But that was okay—God gave him two working hands and an imagination for a reason.

He wasn’t rearing for a party tonight. No, post-show, Edge was destined to enjoy a leisurely shower in his peaceful suite before settling down in his bed to have a leisurely wank. He already had a fantasy ready to go, pre-plotted thanks to something that had happened barely two hours ago, mid-show, when he was meant to be focused purely on what his hands were doing to his guitar. A melody on the brain, not that other thing.

But here he was, and there he’d been, barely two hours ago, thinking about it (and something else). The best kind of madness.

He would never apologize for pondering such things, if pressed. Yet he also would never bring them up first in pleasant company. It’s just how his life and general existence was supposed to play out. Aspects of it, anyway. 

“What are your plans, Edge?” Bono asked when they reunited in the hotel elevator, the post-show glaze having almost left his eyes, although not yet overtaken by a certain playfulness Edge knew all too well. “We could work on something? Or go out? Have a drink, see where the night takes us, what do you say? I actually have . . . oh, what’s that bar? The one we went to, was it during Popmart? You know the one I mean, right?”

“Do you even know what city we’re in?”

“Of course I do,” Bono retorted. “I said it multiple times this evening, I’ll have you know.”

“What bar are you talking about?”

“Truthfully? I’ve no idea. But I imagine we’ll figure it out. If it’s still standing. I don’t think it was Popmart. Was I even with you?”

“Unfortunately, B, you’re asking a number of questions I don’t have the answer for,” Edge patiently replied as the doors opened. With a practiced hand, he guided Bono out onto the carpet. “Would you be fine with me guessing on most of them?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. It probably wasn’t Popmart if you’re unsure, but whenever it was, I probably _was_ with you, and I probably would know the bar you mean if I saw it. But if it wasn’t Popmart then it’s been almost a decade, maybe longer, since we’ve been there, so it’s probably not standing.”

“Such a disappointment, The Edge.”

“Me, or what I just said?”

“Never you,” Bono said with a grin, then stopped to appreciate their surroundings. Normal, boring hotel walls with nice lighting fixtures, the type he’d seen a million times. That post-show glaze was still lingering. “What are your plans?”

“I’m staying in.”

“How nice for you.”

“I don’t want to work on something.”

“Such a disappointment, The Edge,” he repeated, still smiling, his gaze now on the ceiling. “Have you ever put much serious thought into why so many of the hotels we stay in resemble each other?”

“I actually have an answer for that.”

“I figured you might.”

“You see, we generally stay at hotels from the same hotel chain. The Four Seasons? I imagine you’ve heard of them.”

“I’m familiar,” Bono said after a pause, giving Edge a look that could only mean one thing: _watch yourself._

“Image brand is very important, you know. If one Four Seasons decides on bright pink walls then it could bring down the entire chain . . . somehow. I’ve not put much _serious_ thought into how, but you never know. It could happen.”

“I don’t know, Edge.” Bono shook his head, his expression saying he was thinking about something other than hotel aesthetics. “I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. You really expect me to remember shit like hotel names?”

“No,” Edge replied, although he really meant _yes_. But answering how he wanted would lead to another conversation, which could then snowball into yet another conversation, and he didn’t want that. He had plans, great plans, ones that did not involve standing in a fucking hallway discussing everything under the sun with Bono. That’s what airplanes, car rides and breakfast were for. “Why don’t you go have a nice shower and clear your mind?”

“I guess I’m just distracted,” Bono murmured, clearly having not heard a fucking thing Edge just said. Which meant that no clean break from this tête-à-tête was going to happen any time soon. Disappointing, yet not unexpected when in such company.

Edge sighed, his thoughts on that fantasy of his as he asked, “What’s on your—”

“Did you see that sign this evening?” Bono rushed out, as if he’d been waiting two hours or so to bring it up.

Edge had seen the sign. Of course he had. It’d been hard to miss. Still, his immediate response was, “What sign?” Because what else could it be, on such a night?

Briefly, Bono stared at him. A probing analysis, one that was both expected and known. And then he smiled, shook his head and said, “Goodnight, Edge.”

Forty seconds later, Edge was alone in his hotel suite, leaning against the door as he contemplated oh so many things—one of which was still that specific fantasy, as who was he kidding? It was very much related to what had almost just been discussed.

A minute or so passed before he worked up the motivation to go about his grand plan, although there was a niggling thought as he stepped beneath the beautifully hot water, one that involved the door he’d left behind. Specifically, opening it to head back out into the world. Or, at the very least, down the hallway. Make himself known before any shower could be had.

Of course he’d seen the sign. Mid-show, right when he’d meant to be focused on what his hands were doing to his fucking guitar. One of the biggest distractions he’d known in recent times.

However, he couldn’t tell Bono that. Not tonight.

The phone was ringing when Edge finally dragged himself out from beneath the water. On any other night, he might have ignored it, instead flopping down to get on with the next step of his incredible plan.

But he knew, even without answering, who was on the other side. And he also knew how tenacious said person could be when slighted (not to mention a few other issues that could occur if he didn't pick up). After a reflective pause, he reached for the receiver.

“I’m not entirely sure we’re done with the discussion,” Bono said instead of _hello_ , as if they were midway through their phone conversation instead of at the very beginning. “In fact, we’ve barely even begun.”

“That’s because you ended it by saying goodnight.”

“No, _you_ ended it by playing dumb.”

“That didn’t mean you had to give up so easily.”

“I don’t give up. When have you ever known me to give up?”

“Not once.”

“Exactly, so this is on you, Edge.”

“Why are you getting a fucking attitude?”

“I don’t have an attitude, motherfucker, I’m just laying out facts.”

“Is that what’s happening here?” Edge asked, somehow amused, frustrated and legitimately a little baffled at the same time. Which was, admittedly, par for the course when dealing with Bono on such nights.

“You saw the sign. And don’t say you didn’t, I know you did.”

“There were a lot of signs, Bono.”

“ _Edge_.”

“Okay, I saw the sign.”

“I know you did.”

“Yes, we’ve established that and are both better for it,” Edge said dryly. “Can we move on to the point you’re trying to make? I’ve actually got plans, you know.”

“Eager to fall asleep in front of the telly, are we?”

“ . . . eventually, sure.”

“My point is, Edge,” Bono started loudly, before completely losing steam. “Well . . . my point is, you know, I’m just curious if you’ve ever . . . you know—”

“Thought about it?”

“Maybe.”

“Have you?”

“I asked you first.”

“Technically, you didn’t. You only got halfway there, while I finished it.”

“You know, this is not how I planned this call to go,” Bono said, his tone that of a man either working himself up into a quiet huff or seeking to go drown his sorrows. It was hard to know sometimes. “I just wanted your clear opinion on the matter, but instead—”

“Are you saying _I’m_ the one with the attitude now?”

“Did I fucking say that?”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t have to say, Bono, the implications are still there. Do you even listen to yourself?”

“Can I come over?”

“Yeah, alright,” Edge quickly answered, the dial tone sounding right as he was saying his final syllable.

He gently hung up the phone, staring at it a moment before heading to wait by the door. His leisurely plans would have to wait. Disappointing, yet not unexpected when such company was involved. Although disappointing wasn’t really the right word to use. Really, he couldn’t complain too much about this fresh, other plan for the next . . . however long Bono decided to stick around. He was, after all, very good company indeed.

“At least one person has thought about us kissing, clearly,” Bono declared once the door was open, apparently having completely given up on nice words such as _hi_ and _you look far more relaxed now_ and, of course, _sorry to interrupt your planned wank session, but I am Bono and this is what I do, I’m sure you know how this works by now, The Edge . . . it is what it is_. “I mean, they made a fucking sign requesting for it to happen and had the idea to bring it to a concert where we would see it.”

“Okay,” Edge said, certain that single word—or, perhaps, any—would not register right now. But he felt better for having said something before reaching out and dragging Bono inside. It was far better than snagging his shirt and making a go for it without uttering a single word. Not quite as . . . aggressive (or something decidedly more sinister and/or obscene).

“Why do you think that is?” Bono continued once the door clicked shut. “Do you think they see something between us?”

Casually, as though he was completely unbothered, Edge shrugged, even as he fought and quickly lost the great battle that was restraint, glancing down at what he could see of Bono’s bare thighs. Boxer briefs and a plain black tee—the perfect outfit to wear when coming to bring up the possibility of sexual tension and kissing. Edge wasn’t one to complain (and he definitely shouldn’t, given what he was working with) but Christ Almighty. “They might just have been referencing the bullfight.”

“That is bull _shit_ , Edge, we don’t need a sign prompting me to do something that is scripted every fucking night.”

“Okay, then she wanted us to kiss, is acknowledging that enough to shut you up?”

Don’t be ridiculous,” Bono said, rolling his eyes. “You know there’s a process here. I want to have a deep and invasive discussion about this.”

“Of course you do,” Edge muttered, then turned and headed for the kitchen. He expected Bono to follow and was happy when he did just that, although the silence was a little surprising and made Edge reach for a drink stronger than the tea he’d planned.

Generally, silence meant something was coming, and he needed all the help he could get.

However, when Bono spotted the bottle of hard liquor, his entire being changed abruptly, shifting into something far softer and, yes, bordering on manipulative. Edge didn’t have to hear whatever words were about to break the peace—he knew every trick Bono could pull out of those often too-long sleeves of his.

“Have you thought about it?” he sweetly asked, barely one step away from batting his eyelashes. “It’s okay if you have, you know.”

“Bono—”

“Come on, Edge, it’s me.” Wearing a smile as sweet as his current voice, Bono closed the distance between them, his hand sneaking onto the counter to pat Edge’s, where it stayed. And while it was hard to know for sure, given he couldn’t always read Bono’s mind, Edge was fairly certain that this move at this precise time was not part of the plan. Not on his side of things, anyway. But was he going to complain? “You know you can tell me anything.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Edge confirmed far too quickly, then shook his head at how stupidly eager he sounded. One smile, and he turned to putty—really, the fucking story of their lives. “You know, once or twice. Maybe a few times.”

“Just a few times?”

“Maybe more than a few.”

“So have I.”

And that was that, and there they were, staring at each other while near chest to chest, holding hands as Bono gave him a look that was just south of being utterly erotic. Something had to be done, anything, before . . . well, before something _else_ happened right there in the fucking kitchen.

It wasn’t like Edge was against events transpiring in the kitchen, it was more the fact that this was not his kitchen and he didn’t want to sully the counter when someone else would have to clean the damn thing. He had standards, after all, although he’d forgotten all about them once or twice in the past, having no choice but to leave an obscene tip to make up for it.

. . . this was not at all what he should be focusing on right now, but, as was often the case, the mind followed its own curious path in life.

Not knowing what else to do, he again shook his head, throwing out a sigh that made Bono smile instead of taking a step back, before saying, “Maybe she did see something between us.”

It was not the _anyway, should we change the subject . . . or at the very least, vacate the kitchen?_ that Edge could have said. But did he regret it?

“Do you want to try it?” Bono asked after a thoughtful pause, throwing neither of them for a loop.

Still, Edge raised his eyebrows as he stared down at Bono, briefly silent before offering his own question, one he figured should probably be said at such a time: “Are you serious?”

“Well, we’re both curious, so why not?”

“I’m curious about a fairly large number of things in life, Bono.”

“Like what? Name something, just one.”

“Deep-sea diving.”

“And would you do it, if given the chance?”

“ . . . yes.”

“Then I’m not entirely sure what point you’re trying to make here, Edge.”

Truth be told, Edge wasn’t either.

“It’s not going to hurt anyone,” Bono continued when the silence between them reached a full four seconds or so. “And it doesn’t have to be serious, it can be . . . just one little kiss. Just to see what it’s like, yeah? And who knows, maybe it’ll help get rid of all that tension.”

“You think there’s tension between us?” Edge asked (although he knew full well the answer to such a question).

With a knowing smile, Bono said, “At least one person thinks so. They made the sign, after all.”

“Okay,” Edge said immediately, instead of _maybe we should talk about this some more, or even take a step back, both physically and metaphorically_? It probably wasn’t how this was supposed to go, but did he care? “Just . . . just one kiss,” he added after a beat, as if those sad few words were enough to save face.

“I wouldn’t dream of anything more,” Bono insisted, a known liar, through and through. Usually, he was better at hiding it, however. Not just the lying, but the pretending . . . not to mention everything else.

Still smiling, he leaned in half an inch before pulling back, frowning thoughtfully as he surveyed their surroundings. Was he thinking about the kitchen counter situation as well (even if it was only one little kiss, nothing more, on the cards)? It seemed plausible, although with Bono, you just could never know sometimes. He might have been deliberating over hotel aesthetics, or drifting while thinking about some book on fucking economics.

“Oh, it’s not right, is it?” he asked, screwing up his face as he glanced right back to where he was supposed to be looking.

“It does feel like breaking the rules,” Edge dutifully agreed while silently imploring with a penetrative gaze: _and isn’t that why it’s just a touch exciting?_

“I meant the setting, Edge,” Bono said after a pointed beat. “Not very sensual, is it?”

“I didn’t realize we were aiming for sensual with one little kiss.”

“Then you’ve been doing it wrong.”

“Is that why my marriage failed?” Edge asked.

“I’m not going there,” Bono answered, before immediately going there. “Although you did manage to make three beautiful babies, so you must have been doing something right.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

After shaking his head (as though he couldn’t quite understand how they had detoured from their original plan), Bono said, “Come on,” entwining his fingers with Edge’s before dragging them both out of the kitchen.

“Okay.”

It was, naturally, the bedroom Bono had his mind on, or more specifically, the bed. The very same place Edge had, barely half an hour ago, envisioned his naked self stretching out on before having a leisurely wank. Instead, he was stretching out, still clothed, next to his equally clothed best friend, who was giving him a look that was decidedly not one shared between platonic best friends (but when had they ever conformed to the societal expectations placed upon male bonding?)

Briefly, they simply stared at each other. And then the moment was apparently over, and Bono was leaning in with enthusiastic intent, only to hold back right when it really counted, lightly brushing his lips against Edge’s before pulling back just far enough to see the reaction. Like an absolute tease.

It really was not fair. Nor would it stand. Bono knew how these things went with Edge. To suggest something and have it agreed upon meant if it wasn’t followed through, it would bounce around his mind and keep him from falling asleep. A proposed kiss was a kiss, not something half-arsed, and without the real thing, Edge would be up all fucking night, completely pent up.

He leaned back in without a second thought, aiming for just one little kiss, nothing more. Somehow, however, he missed the mark entirely, his fingers ending up in Bono’s hair, a tongue in his mouth, Bono’s needy moan travelling straight to Edge’s cock to set up camp, while his hand also was showing some interest in reaching that location, trailing down Edge’s side at a pace that was maddening. Another thing that was neither fair nor would stand.

What difference did it make if he acted on impulse? One little kiss was already out the window, so why not get exactly what he wanted? Who would it hurt? Not them, nor would it ruin their evening. Not a fucking chance.

Swiftly, Edge snatched that maddening hand, extracting it from his hip and placing it exactly where it was needed. And that’s all it took for Bono to pull his head back (but not his fingers) and burst out laughing.

“What?”

“You’re very naughty, The Edge.”

“Yeah? Is that what you like?”

“Oh, love,” Bono said, his voice and gaze impossibly warm, his hand aiming for something a touch more obscene. “I can’t keep it up.”

“Well, that’s a bit disappointing to hear right now, but these things do happen, especially as you get older.”

“Not that, this!” Bono exclaimed, using his free hand to gesture between them. “The _ruse_ of it all, Edge.”

It was somewhat surprising. Generally, Bono was the instigator in these games and did them so well. But not tonight, apparently. “Can I ask why? I mean, it’s fine, but I’m a little shocked at you throwing in the towel so quickly.”

“What can I say, Edge? I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Bono said like it was enough of an answer. And maybe it was. “And not nearly as much time as I would like with you.” He shrugged, his fingers making one final effort before moving to a temporary home—otherwise known as Edge’s waist. It was, frankly, incredibly frustrating.

“I see.”

“Perhaps I just want to get right to it?” Bono suggested before not getting right to it. “What were you thinking when you saw that sign?”

“Not too much, I was pretty focused on the show,” Edge said, a half-truth.

“Oh, me too.”

“But, you know, it didn’t take me long to come up with a whole fantasy surrounding it.”

“Oh, _me too_. But you first.”

“ _Welllll_ ,” Edge started the best way he knew how, which, for some strange reason, made Bono chuckle. “I imagined you acknowledging the sign, pointing it out to me, and the two of us playing coy.”

“Why?”

“Don’t interrupt, alright, just listen.”

“Sorry, The Edge.”

“You know there’s a process that needs to happen here.”

“I do, and I appreciate the process, you know I do, but there are instances where I prefer my fantasies to begin and end with sex.”

“Does this one?”

“Oh, not at all. Mine also has a process, as it should.”

Edge paused, wanting to ask at least three questions. Ultimately, however, he decided to continue as if the interruption never happened. It was probably for the best. “Anyway. So we play coy for a bit, but the fan is so persistent waving her sign that soon enough you give in and kiss my cheek.”

“How incredibly chaste of me.”

“But they’re so fucking persistent, Bono. She wants more, they all shout for more, so you kiss me on the mouth next, and I kiss you back, and they cheer.” Edge paused, considering it before adding, “It’s our first time. Our first proper kiss.”

“And it’s happening on stage.”

“In front of everyone.”

“Edge, this sounds like it could potentially be completely filthy and immoral.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“You absolute animal. Do you really think I’d get off on this? What do you take me for, some kind of wanton exhibitionist?”

“. . . _wellll_ —”

“Can I just ask: are people filming?”

“A couple have camcorders, so yes,” Edge confirmed, not even bothering to hide his smile. “Others have normal cameras. Capturing everything, B. Everything we do.”

“Do you think they’d give me a copy?”

“We’d be on the news. Everyone would know. But you don’t care, you’ve wanted this for a while now. Not just me, but . . . you’ve wanted everyone to see what I could do to you, if given the chance.”

“You make me sound like a whore.”

“Did I say that?”

“It’s implied, Edge. Isn’t that what you always tell me?”

“Anyway. Not that it's important, but Adam and Larry have given up, they already know we’re a lost cause. I imagine they’ve popped backstage for a smoke.”

“Hmm,” Bono let out, his expression turning pensive, while his hand abruptly remembered its roots, leaving its temporary home for somewhere far preferable. Definitely better than any idea of a leisurely fucking wank alone, even if that touch currently lacked much pressure, speed or rhythm. A tease, through and through. “They’ll set off the smoke alarm if they’re not careful.”

“Bono, focus.”

“Right, sorry 'bout that. We’re kissing.”

“No, we’re past that now,” Edge explained as he shifted them both, allowing Bono better access. “You’re completely at my mercy, right there on the heart. Faster.”

“I’ve made a choice and I’m sticking to it.”

“At least put your hand in my pants.”

“Not yet. So you’ve got me down on the stage?”

After biting back the groan that was eager to appear, Edge said, “I do. And I’m going to do whatever I want to you, in front of all those people.”

“Are you going to fuck me?”

“I’m going to fuck you.”

“My first time, Edge,” Bono mused, his lips finding the curve of Edge’s ear. “Are you going to be gentle?”

“Not a chance. I’m already confident you can take it. I’ve seen you pick yourself up and keep going after falling, after all. I know you can handle a few bruises.”

“Jesus Christ. I think you might be right.”

“They’ll all know, B. Oh, shit.”

“Something wrong?”

“Uh . . . everyone will see how much of a whore you can be. All because of one little sign. And they'll hear it too, you know. The microphone is right there where you dropped it. They'll—fucking hell . . . they'll hear everything. _Faster_ , B.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bono repeated with a breathless giggle, his hand for some ridiculous reason again retreating. “Do you think they’d be into it?”

“What are you doing?”

“Edge, do you think they’d be into it?”

It was no use trying to argue the position Edge currently had on the matter of Bono’s hand. Even when Edge had control (and he often did, and that was something he was secretly proud of) Bono still managed to get in a few quips or directions from the backseat. Sometimes, more than a few. Generally, however, it didn’t matter too much. They got where they needed to go in the end. Still, it was tempting to shake him sometimes. 

“Well," Edge started after huffing out a long-suffering sigh. "I don’t feel it’s right to answer for them, but I imagine at least the woman with the sign would. I’m pretty confident, though, that a good number of people might be jealous.”

“Of who?”

“Of me.”

“Why?”

“Is that a serious question or are you just looking to have your ego inflated?” he asked and didn’t receive an answer. Not verbally, anyway. Somehow, Bono managed to look innocent, slightly cunning and a little insulted that Edge would dare suggest such a thing. It was not at all surprising. “You have no idea how many in the audience would love to be in my position.”

It was another half-truth. He was fairly certain Bono did partly know. Perhaps not the entirety of the no doubt giant number—no one could say that ego didn’t exist, yet it definitely wasn’t as big as everyone thought—but at least a few here and there.

“Would you let them?”

“Fuck no, you’re mine.” It was the right thing to say, going by Bono’s reaction. Edge paused, drinking in that changing expression, the way those thighs slid together before asking, “What was your fantasy?”

“Surprisingly similar,” Bono admitted after a lengthy beat or three. “Although, oddly enough my mind refused to take Larry and Adam out of the picture. I imagine them just . . . sitting there on the main stage, being incredibly patient. Maybe they decide to jam while they wait. Good way to pass the time, that. Some might say it could even be inspirational.”

“For us or them?”

“Who could care, The Edge?”

“I think I prefer my version.”

“I’m right there with you.”

“Were they really that similar?”

“They really were,” Bono said with a hazy smile that dissipated shockingly fast, a stricken expression taking over. “Edge, have we become too predictable? Is that what that means? Christ, are we one of those boring couples?”

“I don’t think that’s possible, baby.”

“No?”

“There’s nothing boring about you,” Edge insisted. “And there is certainly nothing boring about what I’m going to do to you, once you take off your pants.”

“Do you need some guidance?”

“No, I think I know my way around down there by now.”

“Are you sure?” Bono asked, hooking his thumb around the band of his underwear. “You know, I have some experience with various forms of artistic creation. I can make up a sign if you’re feeling a little lost.”

“I know where to put my cock, Bono,” Edge said flatly. “But thank you.”


End file.
